


Fell of Blood

by dorkery



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Character Death, Dragon Incest AU, Dragons, Dubious Consent, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Romance, F/M, For the record the incest bit has to do with Gangrel and not the endgame ship, Hurt/Comfort, Incest, Magic, Military, Non-Explicit Sex, Politics, Robin is an overpowered badass who just needs to BELIEVE IN HERSELF, Sacrifice, Slow Burn, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-19
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2018-08-14 19:15:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8025757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dorkery/pseuds/dorkery
Summary: The Magister of Plegia is taken prisoner by the Prince of Ylisse in the middle of war. Although they begin to fall in love, her secrets, the truth of her blood and the political machinations of the Plegian House threaten to destroy their bond for good.A High Fantasy AU, with dragons and incest.
  ETA 15/7/2018: I promise this story is not abandoned. I just have to get my life together right now.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Because I never learn, here's another Chrom/Robin story to add to the heap.
> 
> This is a giant fantasy story with a lot of fairly intricate plot elements. All in all, it will probably be 20 chapters long. ~~My aim is to update every 2 weeks, though I do need a week's buffer due to my work (and also how horribly complicated this story is going to be).~~ **ETA 15/7/2018: I promise this story is not abandoned. I just have to get my life together right now.**
> 
> This story is set in an Alternate Universe, without time travelling, and different familial relations. The time setting is similar to the game. Although there is incest in this story, it will not be be sexually explicitly portrayed.
> 
> That being said, hope you enjoy.

The air was thick with sweat and a heady incense, smoke rising in wispy white trails that filled the room. Outside, the burning Plegian sun was overbright, desert sands shimmering white in the distance under its rays. In contrast, it was cool and dark within the palace walls. Torches flickered along ancient columns, casting long shadows over the various guests that milled in the Great Hall. Small canals and fountains had been carved into the rock all around them, water flowing in an unbroken stream, settling the heat. Even so, the humidity was overpowering, making it almost difficult to breathe. 

“Won’t this sham of a wedding get on?” Chrom growled, “This heat is unbearable.”

“Hush, my lord,” his retainer replied through gritted teeth, sweating profusely under full plate armour, “It seems they will begin soon enough.”

“Better to end soon as well. I can’t wait to leave this godforsaken land, Frederick.”

“I agree, but perhaps it would be wise to keep such comments to ourselves while we are in the company of our hosts.”

“Ha!” But Chrom fell silent, staring through the darkness with his hands clasped behind him. He could feel the sweat rolling down his back as the incense burned through, smoke changing scents to something intoxicatingly sweet at the turn of the hour. He felt like it would drive him delirious, the maddening heat and choking smell.

But the anxious thrum of the room was soon broken by the rhythmic beating of drums. A line of lutists and lyrists strummed in harmony, quickly and melodiously, a mysterious tune that Chrom had never heard before, but distinctively Western in sound. Flutes and pipes joined, the music almost trance-like in the darkness, against the thick scent of burning incense.

At the head of the procession was a tall, dark man with sharp eyes, in the robes of a High Priest. There was a term for the head of the Plegian religion… The Hierophant. That was it. The Hierophant carried in his arms a swathe of cloth, from whose corner peeked the cover of a thick and heavy black tome. Behind him, bedecked in a long black tunic and dazzling golden jewellery was the groom, whose untamed red hair and manic eyes only served to further justify his sobriquet as the Mad King. His crown was a glittering gold, embedded with jewels of all colours, a symbol of his influence over the breadth and length of the great Kingdom of Plegia. Behind him, his retinue of ministers followed, each carrying a tray filled with dowry gifts.

The groom took his place at the dais. He kneeled on a thick velvet cushion, embroidered with the black claw of the Plegian House. Facing the Hierophant, he was not allowed to cast his eyes upon his bride-to-be, who emerged with her own retainers. She was dressed in nothing but veils of black it seemed, the colour of mourning in all nations but Plegia. A distasteful sight. A circlet crowned her head, and a black veil draped over the back of her long snowy-white hair and fell to the floor. Her eyes were outlined in a thick dark kohl and her nose and mouth were also veiled. She wore black mesh from her neck to her toes, with her only modesty in the form of covered breasts, a long loincloth and embroidered shoes that curled at the toes, each a dark and bloody crimson. Her jewellery too was golden. She sat on an Ottoman in the recess of the hall, hands folded and eyes drawn low as she waited.

“Disgusting,” Frederick muttered. Chrom could only scowl in agreement. It was bad enough that a woman of her royal stature would have her body exposed like a common street whore. 

“We are here to witness the joining of his Royal and Imperial Majesty, the High King of Plegia, He Who Is 20th of the Bloodline of the Great Dragon Grima, Ruler of the Plegian Desert and the Western Provinces, my honoured brother, to She Who Is 23rd of the Bloodline of the Great Dragon Grima, second in line to the Plegian throne,” the Hierophant narrowed his eyes briefly, barely acknowledging the woman of whom he spoke, “My honoured daughter, in matrimonial bonds.”

“Vile,” Chrom spat, fingers itching to take hold of something he could break. Frederick stood equally tense beside him, eyes dark with loathing.

The Hierophant continued with the marriage rites, reciting prayers in the ancient Plegian tongue. The room was focused on the priest and king, growing restless and uneasy as the noon sun began its descent, shining directly into the Great Hall.

“She’s so young,” came a whisper from the left. His guard, Stahl, was unable to tear his eyes away from the bride, “And beautiful.”

“Can there be nothing worse than lust for your own flesh?” Chrom’s scowl was absolutely hateful. He couldn’t bear to cast his eyes on the girl, knowing she was party to this act of sin, but Stahl’s words made him glance. She was undoubtedly beautiful, hair and skin white and unmarked against the ruddy tan of the tattooed Plegian peoples. And that, somehow, made the situation even more sickening than it already was. He turned away, “Do not stare at the harlot, Stahl, lest you cause,” a humourless chuckle, “ _Offence._ ”

“They did not speak her name.”

“It is their custom,” Frederick replied quietly, “Now pray avert your eyes.”

Stahl had, indeed, attracted a score of scornful glares from Plegian guards and palace hands. With a final lingering look at the bride, he quickly turned his head to stare ahead at the groom and the Hierophant, sweat dripping down his brow. He wiped it with the back of his hand, feeling light-headed and overwarm.

“In the Plegian tradition, our honoured guests are invited to grant their blessings to the bride and groom by casting ash flower into the flame.”

 _Blessings_. Chrom was loath to give it, but as the Ambassador to the Halidom of Ylisse, he could not afford to cause _offence_. He stepped forward mechanically when his name was announced, taking a fistful of the white blossoms and throwing it into the fire without delicacy. The burning flower released a sweet smell, thickening the air further, making the proceedings seem ever more like a drug-induced haze of madness rather than what it was meant to be. The flame surged with each feeding, growing larger and hotter until the last guest stepped back from the pit. 

Gracefully, the bride rose to her feet, led by her handmaiden to the empty cushion beside the groom. She kneeled and, following a moment’s pause, daintily placed her hand in the groom’s. The groom reached into the pit, pulling out a long black rod with a brand at the end that was a molten red. 

Chrom could only watch in horror as the groom, without ceremony or a word of warning, pressed the brand into the back of the bride’s hand. It was all too quick; a sizzle, the smell of burning flesh, the bride collapsing. She did not scream but whimpered softly, forcibly made to sit upright by her handmaiden. Her hand remained in place, gripped tightly by the groom.

“Honoured guests, you are invited to complete the rites of marriage with the final blessing.”

He felt numb. What was he a party to? The branding of a person? Of a child? Of incest? And yet, all he could do was step forward when his name was called, and with unsteady hands, fill a cup proffered by a servant with water from a stone basin. He poured it over their joined hands and steam rose from her wound, a rite to cool the burn of the brand, and in that moment, all he could see was a trembling hand and the purple mark of a six-eyed dragon emblazoned onto pale white skin. 

And then, the Great Hall exploded.


	2. The Magister

_Two years later..._

_CLANG!_ The force of the swordblow was powerful and Chrom staggered under its weight. He allowed his opponent to push him back, taking the opportunity to reposition his feet to a wider stance, and in an instant, went limp and quickly withdrew. The Plegian fighter staggered forward with his momentum and Chrom quickly finished him, his sword coming down in a final, fatal slash. 

From the corner of his eye, an axeman came running. Chrom shot forward, impaling him through the chest before he could reach. As the axeman fell dead to the ground, Chrom scanned the battlefield, wiping away a fleck of blood from his cheek. 

Though they were deep in Plegian territory, the smaller Ylissian forces were visibly taking control of the battle. Fighting had been going on for two days on every front currently engaged in battle and fatigue was beginning to show. It was important for Ylisse to secure a decisive victory in a single stroke this day or the war would drag on even further, straining their resources. Although Ylissians were renowned for their arms skills, the Plegians were talented magic-users. All he and his forces could do was to keep on attacking. They had to push this long range battle closer until they were nose-to-nose with the mages and had depleted their magic reserves. And then, all that would be left would be to go in for the kill. But that meant withstanding a barrage of spells that burnt flesh and paralyzed limbs. No matter, though. The Plegian stronghold was finally within reach. Victory would be theirs. And then the main army could finally move.

“It’s the Magister!”

That distant cry was echoed fearfully throughout the battlefield. It had Chrom narrowing his eyes as he immediately scanned the horizon for the subject in question. Of all the rotten timing… The Magister of Plegia. The bane of the Ylissians. Mage Commander of the Plegian mage army. A seemingly endless reserve of magic, strength and wit that seemed to decimate entire platoons in a single masterful stroke. Chrom readied his blade and marched towards the centre of the fray.

“Milord!” Frederick shouted, his voice cutting through the noise, his horse leaping across a mound of corpses and whinnying as he brought it to a halt before Chrom, “Milord, the Magister has entered the battle from the Eastern Plains. A platoon of dark fliers follow.”

“Already?” He smirked, but it was humourless, “Push them only a little, and the Magister comes running?”

“Your orders?” Frederick asked instead, pulling on the reins of his steed to bring it to heel.

“Rally the troops. If the Magister brings only mages mounted on pegasi, I want archers and spear throwers behind our immediate frontlines. Any crossbows?”

“Two squadrons on the southern field.”

“Bring them forward. Replace them with our pegasus knights. Your cavalry to provide support from behind. I want us to drive a wedge through the middle of their forces and divide them in half.”

“Understood. And you, milord?” 

“Why, Frederick,” Chrom shot him a wry grin as he took his sword into a fighting stance, “Who better to hold off the mighty Plegian Magister than the general himself? I will lead as the spear of the formation. While I occupy that villain, you must cut through, no matter what, and capture that fortress.”

“Be careful this time, please.”

“Save it for when I need it!”

Chrom sprinted forward, leading the charge with a roar. His soldiers fell in behind him and followed as he cut down all enemies in his path, cleaving open a road towards the enemy’s frontlines. In mere moments, he saw his target: The tell-tale coat of a dark mage; the six eyes of the fell dragon on both sleeves, a mark of the highest magical office; the hooded figure wielding the magical snakeblade sword, Levin.

With a roar, Chrom launched himself into the air and slashed downwards. The Magister parried easily, pushing Chrom backwards and using the momentum to jump into a defensive position.

“Why, Lord General!” The deep, haughty voice of woman greeted him loudly, “How kind of you to join us this day!”

“My blade has been eager for your company since we last parted,” Chrom countered, preparing for the next attack, “In particular, it longs for your neck!”

The Magister raised her sword and sliced the air, once, twice, thrice, and from her slashes, blades of wind began to fly towards Chrom. He parried each blade as they came, grunting as their intervals grew shorter and shorter, straining his abilities to keep up, but he did not stop pushing ahead. Her wind blades had unsteady and volatile edges, containing the power of a hurricane in each and held in its form only by the strength of her magic. Though he could parry them all, when his sword made contact, the wind would break into small sharp blades that, even with lesser momentum, cut Chrom along his arms and face and cloak. Just as he began to tire, he cut away the final blade and shot forward, bringing his sword down onto the Magister. They met with a loud clash.

“Your blade could do with a lesson in manners,” she said through gritted teeth, the grip on her sword faltering as she pushed back against the immense strength of Chrom’s arm, “There are rules, you know. Wine. Flowers. An invitation to dinner.”

He got too close. She twisted her wrist and pierced the sky. At the last moment, he managed to jump backwards and evade the bolt of lightning that the Magister summoned with her sword. Recovering his breath, Chrom stood to his full height, circling the Magister predatorily, body taut and ready to strike. She responded in kind, taking careless steps but her eyes never once left Chrom’s face.

“You overestimate yourself, Magister,” Chrom sneered, “For the likes of you, a knife would suffice.”

“Careful you don’t cut yourself on your own blade, General.”

“Funny, I could say the same of you!” Chrom charged, hacking at the Magister, _CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!_ , forcing her to go on the defensive. She could only leap back, parrying his blows whenever he got too close for comfort. He drove her deeper into the battlefield and his final swing embedded itself deeply into the cold, hard earth as she jumped back and disappeared from sight. He raised his head to glare at her, muscles burning with exertion. She had leapt to safety and sheathed her sword, pulling out a tome from inside her coat.

“Oh, I won’t let you!” Chrom yelled as he sprinted forward, swinging wildly once again, “Your cowardly magic won’t save you this time!”

As he roared, his entire strength poured into a final, decisive strike, the Magister raised her hand to meet his blade and a shield manifested at the contact, hard as stone, made of wind magic that seemed to the make the air around her shift and distort. He raised his sword and slashed at her, again and again and again, but each time he was met with the resistance of her force field. He had been careless, slow; in her right hand, she balanced an open tome, its pages crackling with magic.

“You’ve improved, Lord General,” the Magister said, “But even the sharpest sword will dull with overuse.”

“No matter,” he grunted in response, pushing against her shield, forcing her to muster even more power in hopes it would drain her reserves. He wasn’t disappointed; he saw her grimacing and focusing greater magic into her barrier, “You know what they say about bringing a book to a swordfight.”

“True enough,” she smirked from below her hood, and before he could react, she stepped forward and _pushed_ her entire body into her shield. A sudden surge of energy threw him back and he soared through the air. His body slammed into the earth several feet away, making him groan in pain as the fall caused a direct impact to an old injury. Stars danced before his eyes but he shook his head to force them away and, wobbling slightly from pain and exertion, he forced himself to stand.

By then, the Magister had mounted a black Pegasus, holding onto the shoulder of the dark flier for support. The beast launched itself into the air, hovering high above Chrom, beyond what he was capable of reaching.

“My thanks for drawing your forces deep into the Plegian line, Lord General,” the Magister declared over the battlefield. Chrom’s blood ran cold as he snapped his head backwards. It was true; his spear formation had brought the Ylissian army deep into Plegian territory, but their battle had been so fevered that he had moved forward too quickly. His forces were scattered across the battlefield for easy pickings, without the support of their armed cavalry. He glanced back. A wave of black armour separated them from the Ylissian horsemen. They hadn’t been there before. It dawned upon him. An ambush. The Magister had so occupied him that he hadn’t even realised… He caught sight of Frederick valiantly leading the counterattack, evading Plegian lancers and trying to cut a path through, to no avail. There was no way he could have warned Chrom.

“Well, I think it’s time to bring things to an end, don’t you?”

Before Chrom could retort, the Magister had begun chanting. The tome she had been carrying floated in the air as she slowly raised her hands above her head, gathering power. Light began to shine from her spellbook, its pages flipping rapidly as the very air around her changed, warping as it grew warmer, speed growing and growing into a gale that seemed to orbit the fire that had begun gathering above her outstretched palms, conjured from nothing but the power radiating from her very body. The earth trembled, cracking beneath his feet as pebbles, rocks and boulders that had been long buried levitated to the sky, high above her head. He stumbled from the quake, struggling to regain his balance as he ran back.

“Ylissians!” Chrom shouted above the din of magical wind and battle, “Fall back! Fall back!”

“ _Raineth fire upon mine enemies! I bid thee come! **METEOR**!_ ”

The flame she had gathered dispersed in the air, igniting the floating rocks, and they hurtled down towards the embattled Ylissian forces like vengeance from the heavens. A sudden swell of magic filled the air, crackling with power, and the dark flier carrying the Magister soared down along the Ylissian line, the ground ripping in the direction of their flight path as the Magister summoned more stone and fire to burn the entire garrison of frontline fighters and archers. Screams filled the air, drowned out only by the crash of rocks into the earth. From beyond the smoke of Meteor that blanketed the ground like a rising wall of ash, a platoon of dark fliers emerged, pressing the attack with their own magic, able to freely pursue the Ylissians now that the long ranged fighters had been dispatched. Without arrows to strike them down, fireballs and lightning bolts illuminated the black smoke as the dark fliers picked off fighters one by one, circling overhead like vultures.

“Fall back!” Chrom shouted, “Fall back! Fall—”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It was quiet within the Plegian palace, almost utterly devoid of people save a handful of scholars and mages that moved with catlike tread. The silence was broken only by the faint echo of footsteps, the gurgling of water. Despite the breadth of the passageways, passers-by instinctively moved to the side to make room for the Magister as she walked past.

“Milady Magister,” they murmured their greetings, heads bowed in respect. She nodded in acknowledgement without breaking her stride, continuing through the twisting corridors that seemed to extend into the belly of darkness within the palace complex. Her mind wandered, considering the efficiency of her last battle tactic and replaying, in her mind’s eye, the way the general’s confidence seemed to crumble when he realised to what extent he’d been tricked. That face full of hatred and astonishment at being outwitted was something she took deep satisfaction in. That she had bettered a far more experienced foe using nothing but her mind, nothing could quite compare to that feeling. And then she remembered the smell of burning flesh, the screams of men set ablaze, the way the Ylissians had run as her mages swooped in for the kill.

No, she couldn’t be moved. It was kill or be killed. This was war.

The Magister shook her head to clear her thoughts. Conveniently, her legs, having memorised this very route from the hundreds of prior journeys, had brought her to the great, iron-wrought doors that led to the war room. She inhaled slowly and entered without knocking.

It was dim, light coming in from four solitary windows in the cardinal directions, placed high towards the roof of the tower. A mighty chandelier, alight with several hundred candles, hung over the central table, over which several maps had been unrolled. Chess pieces stood in place of battalions, arranged according to battle formations. Away from the centre, the room was plunged in darkness.

“So you’ve arrived.”

The Magister pulled back her hood and stopped in front of the map table, bowing her head, “I apologise for my tardiness, father.”

“No matter, my dear,” the Hierophant, Validar, said, “News of your victory precedes you. Well done.”

“You humble me with your praise.”

“Nonsense, child. I am your father, am I not? Your victories are my victories. You need not bow your head when I express my pride,” he paused, leaning forward to wipe clear an entire line of pawns and knights from the table, completely nonchalant, “Through an ingenious move, you destroyed their entire ranged force and a sizeable number of their horsemen from the southern fields. A simple feint, but devastatingly effective. Your mind is simply remarkable, my dear,” he turned his head to glance at a figure sitting lazily in an unlit corner, “Don’t you agree, brother?”

“Milord,” the Magister quickly bowed, “I apologise for not noticing you—”

“Come now, Robin,” Gangrel rose from his seat and approached, tossing aside the half-filled goblet he had been drinking from, “All this posturing is growing so very _dull_. I am your husband, woman! Your husband! No need for _milords_ and formalities and so on. I’ve asked you to address this several times now, Validar, but she’s not _changed_. Who _must_ I speak to to have it drilled through her thick skull? One would think that the word of the king would suffice.”

Validar was unable to meet Gangrel’s eyes, “I apologise, brother.”

He let out an aggrieved sigh, “Apologies, apologies, apologies! You truly are father and daughter! One could grow sick of apologies. As one has indeed.”

Robin felt a cold sweat run down her back at his words. The implications gave her pause. No matter their relation, Gangrel was still king, and his word was the law. And Gangrel was capable of so many things in his fits of cruelty. She feared that one wrong move could send her to the dungeons below for a lashing. It was a fear that her father never directly dispelled, and true enough, she saw how very respectful he was of her uncle. 

No. She had to think of him as her husband.

In her mind, Gangrel was the king, no more and no less. And if she had to share his bed, well… he _was_ king. She could only obey. It was simply easier. After all, a love match would never be fated; not for her nor for her entire bloodline. It was the duty of the ruling house to participate in politically expedient marriages for the sake of the kingdom. She had come to terms with it from her girlhood days. It shouldn’t shake her _still_ to be confronted with the reality of her position. She was a queen, _the_ queen. She couldn’t let her personal feelings take control.

“You are my lord and king,” Robin finally said, inhaling deeply, “For whom I hold the deepest regard. I would not forgive myself if I showed you any less respect than you deserve.”

“Pah! Foolishness! You’ve had two years to acclimatise. My patience has its limits,” his voice grew deep, gravelly and completely devoid of humour, “You will call me with affection, or you will test the breadth of my anger. Do I make myself clear, _wife_?”

Robin’s mouth felt like cotton. She swallowed, the words leadlike in their heaviness, “Y-Yes, milord… _husband_.”

He narrowed his eyes at her, looking hard before finally he returned to his usual lackadaisical stance, “One must make do with small mercies, I suppose.”

“Indeed, brother,” Validar interjected, “But as I was saying, Robin’s ingenuity has won us the battle. Her achievements today are something to be proud of.”

“Hnn,” Gangrel began another jaunty walk around the table with hands clasped behind him as he inspected the figurines on the map, “Pity you couldn’t take out the general. A prince’s head is a pretty thing to waste.”

“In the given circumstances, I concluded that his life alone was not worth the greater number of lives taken as a whole. His head would have cost us the battle.”

“Ah, but think of their morale!” Gangrel replied gleefully, “How broken, how bereft; an entire nation in mourning for the death of the only legitimate successor to the throne. With him gone, the fool Exalt would be left with nothing but _peace-loving daughters_ as heirs, with no experience in swordcraft or war games. And their halidom would be ours for the taking. In fact, I must say I’m disappointed in you, Robin. All that greatness and you couldn’t manage one simple assassination?”

“Brother, if I may—”

“Given that I had originally wanted you _here_ ,” he pressed a bony finger onto a swampy section of the map, completely surrounded by Ylissian chess pieces, “Working your magic on the bulk of the Ylissian army rather than skirmishing with that fool militia, one could almost draw the conclusion that you _enjoy_ your little clashes with that princeling. It reeks of betrayal, my dear, and treason, as you well know, is punishable by death.”

“Milord, I promise you—”

“ _What did I just say about calling me with affection._ ”

The venom in his voice made her flinch. She swallowed again, wetting her mouth and hoping to the gods that her words were steady and persuasive, “I-I apologise for the lapse, milord husband. It’s just that… I find I must protest at the _insinuation_ that I could feel anything but loathing for the enemy, with whom I have been battling for the past year for the sake of your favour. I have not any room to even consider such treachery, given my devotion and given that I am… I am married to such a considerate and magnanimous monarch, who grants me opportunities to prove my loyalties time and time again, despite my many faults.”

Gangrel regarded her briefly before his lips stretched into a thin smirk, “Idle flattery. Clumsy as ever, wife, but I must admit, I am moved by your devotion. I suppose I should apologise for my _insinuations_.”

“Brother,” Validar broke his silence, a note of frustration in his voice, “I still have my reservations about putting Robin into battle.”

“Ho? This old argument? Where has that pride gone to, brother? Were you not the one crowing about her successes?”

“Of course her victories make me proud, but to put her in harm’s way…”

“Stay your foolish sentimentality, Validar,” Gangrel gave him a dismissive wave, “She may have your brains but she possesses her mother’s talent. Only a fool would keep such an asset out of the army. Look how quickly she’s risen to Magister,” he drew his shoulders back, smug, almost with pride, “Few could ever rise to such an office and _keep_ it without possession of the power and wit necessary to protect themselves of backstabbers. And, oh, you know full well just how much power Robin possesses, don’t you brother? Shouldn’t such power protect Plegia in her hour of need?”

“But should anything befall her—”

“Your foolish stunt of assigning Robin to the southern fields has cost us dearly, brother,” Gangrel decisively changed topics, speaking loudly over Validar, “The tides turn against us. Her absence has left the Exalt’s army intact, amassing greater power than before. And so, dearest wife, you will go _here_ , to the heart of the war, and you will decimate the Exalt’s army and drench the Table red with Ylissian blood. Do I make myself clear?’

“Brother, please—”

“ _Do I make myself clear?_ ”

Robin’s mouth moved on its own, “As you wish, milord husband.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“She ambushed you,” Chrom threw down his gauntlets angrily, left and then right, “ _How_ in the blazes could she have ambushed you?”

“It was almost as though they foresaw our every move, milord,” Frederick said tiredly, entering the tent after him, “I assure you, the moment you made your assault, an entire line of dragoons separated us from your infantry and broke all communication lines. My horsemen were trying to fend off their lances so I thought to send scouts ahead of us. Unfortunately, there were mages mixed in with them and they picked off stragglers one by one.”

“How foolish I must have looked then,” Chrom replied hotly, pacing agitatedly around his tent, “Rushing headlong into battle with a bloodthirst simply because my nemesis made an appearance. While behind me, my forces are being ambushed.”

“Your move was the logical choice, milord. I assure you, if you hadn’t gone straight for the Magister, our forces would have scattered from panic. Your leadership minimised our losses.”

“My _leadership_?” Chrom let out a bark of laughter though it held little to no humour, “That was scarcely what my father called it.”

“The Exalt has been amassing his anti-magic forces for close to a year now. I’m sure you can imagine his anger when the Magister, the Mage Commander, disappears from the battlefield and leaves behind the army of mages she’s supposed to be commanding, to rout a breakaway militia. A militia intended to ambush the Plegian stronghold while he provides a sizeable distraction. And when the militia is forced to retreat, what is he left with but an entire army wrongly outfitted for battle and a failed stratagem? I assure you, his… outburst was fuelled only by the hopes he had placed in your success. No one could have predicted such an outcome.”

“ _She_ could have,” Chrom slammed his fist down on top of a nearby bureau, “And she did. We suffered a humiliating defeat on account of my poor judgement and her blasted foresight.”

“Milord, perhaps if you allow me to—”

“I swear to you, Frederick,” poison creeped into his voice, “I _will_ take the Magister’s head. Be it on a platter or on a pike, I care not. But she _will_ be mine.”

“You speak out of anger and pain, sire,” Frederick finally said with a sigh, taking a seat and patting the area beside him, “Let me change your bandages. And then, perhaps, a nap would serve you well.”

“I’m no child, Frederick,” he replied testily, but obediently sat down and allowed Frederick to loosen the bandages wrapped around his torso. His back stung, fresh with wounds from a lashing administered by his father’s favourite bootlicker. To be hurt in the same place thrice, by the only two people who had ever caused him such deep humiliation, was an injury more grievous than the loss of a limb. And he didn’t know if it were even more humiliating that his father had delegated the task of his punishment rather than rendering it himself. The Magister, at least, had the courtesy to wound him by her own hand.

Chrom winced at a sharp pressure against his injury, instinctively smacking Frederick’s hand away, “It stings.”

“I am well aware it stings, Your Highness,” he said patiently, “But your injury will lead to infection if you do not allow me to continue this treatment. Unless, of course, you prefer the hand of a young lady-healer to my own.”

“You tempt me,” Chrom grumbled, hissing as Frederick poured a salve onto the open cuts, “Careful!”

“For the love of… all right, I will call a healer.”

“No, wait!”

“Milord,” Frederick began with a long-suffering expression, “I am clearly ill-equipped to provide you with a _comfortable_ treatment, so allow me to find someone who _is_.”

“Don’t make me say it,” Chrom said through gritted teeth, “Please.”

Frederick lingered at the entrance of the tent for but a moment. Slowly, he lowered the flap and retook his seat beside the prince.

“Thank you,” he mumbled.

“I apologise for taking my bluff too far,” Frederick replied, “Of course I wouldn’t delegate this to just anyone. I have your confidence, as ever.”

Chrom nodded and offered his back to Frederick. At the touch of his hand, he flinched and hissed, “Watch it!”

Frederick bit the inside of his cheek. He managed to spread the salve across the necessary areas and had begun to wind a new bandage around Chrom’s body when someone burst into the tent.

“Milord!” A woman in light armour and long brown hair stumbled as she entered, “I came as soon as I heard! Are you all right?”

“Fine, Sumia,” Chrom pulled down his shirt and not so subtly pushed Frederick’s hands away from him, sitting a little taller, “What have you heard exactly?”

“The Magister’s trick,” she replied solemnly, “When I heard the body count, I was so worried that something had happened to you and I just…”

“Is that all?” 

“Is that all…? Your survival is of my- our utmost concern! The thought that you could have been caught in such an awful attack was too terrible to bear!”

“Oh, uh,” Chrom felt slightly foolish then, “I don’t mean to belittle your concerns, Sumia. And I do appreciate it. It’s just that, well, with everything that’s happened, I wonder if you’ve you heard any other news beyond my,” he grimaced, “Spectacular failure.”

“I couldn’t disagree more, milord,” Sumia argued passionately, “No one could have foreseen that that she-devil would play such a cowardly trick. And that spell! If it weren’t for you, I’m sure – no, I _know_ that far fewer men would have made it out alive. The Pegasus knights would have been caught in a slaughter.”

“Please, Sumia,” Chrom held up a hand to stop the cascade of words, “I… cannot tell you how much it means to me to hear your support. But, truly, my accomplishments aside, what news is there?”

Sumia hesitated, “There are new marching orders.”

“Yes?”

“The militia is to join the main attacking force at the Dragon’s Table.”

“Of course,” Chrom exhaled in a huff, “Of course, we will. A decisive attack. At the frontlines?”

“… supporting the rear.”

“Blast,” Chrom was reminded of Sumia’s company and forced himself to calm down, “Right. I mean, of course, we are. After that dismal showing, no one in their right mind would place the militia upfront. Unless we were intended as cannon fodder,” he said glumly, but quickly shook his head before looking at Sumia with a thin smile, “Thank you for letting me know, Sumia. Better from you than a courier. I will rely on your air support, as ever.”

“Of course, milord. I endeavour to… to help you to the best of my abilities,” Sumia’s cheeks reddened, “Are you not injured at all? Is there nothing I can do in the mean time?”

“I could step out for a moment, if you require it,” Frederick offered as he eyed them warily. 

Sumia’s flush deepened and Chrom was quick to say, “No, I think we should… I’m sorry, Sumia, but we were discussing something private, if you don’t mind? I thank you for your concern but I am not injured at all.”

“Oh! Of course not, milord. Please, forgive me for disturbing you.”

“Not at all. I’m always,” Chrom coughed, averting his eyes, “Happy to see you.”

Her smile could have lit up the skies. She softly bade them farewell and exited the tent. There was a crash of something falling to the ground and her hurried apologies, all of it slowly fading into the noise of the crowd.

“I would not mind giving you privacy,” Frederick said, “All things considered.”

“She is beautiful on the inside as she is on the outside, but Frederick,” Chrom rolled his shirt up and spoke through gritted teeth, “Even if I were willing to show her such shameful wounds, I’m afraid she would accidentally make my injuries _worse_ than better, and I would hardly consider bleeding to death romantic at all.”

A quirked brow, “Arguments could be made to say otherwise, milord.”

“Yes, but only if it was a _romantic_ wound. This, well… this is an embarrassment. And of all the people I’d want to embarrass myself in front of,” Chrom looked away, fiddling with a fraying edge of a piece of cloth, “She’d be last on the list, wouldn’t you say?”

Frederick’s expression softened and he reached for the dangling end of the earlier bandage, “Of course, milord.”

“ _Watch_ it!”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Robin closed the doors behind her and leaned back against it, knocking her head against the wood gently and closing her eyes. She slowly slid down to the ground, wishing she could melt into the cool stone, allowing her limbs to lay limply wherever they fell as she let out a despondent sigh.

How to cope with such exhaustion, honestly? Between her studies, her practice duels, her war meetings and her battlefield engagements, she could barely stand. How she longed for a puppeteer who could control her body on her behalf. At the very least, perhaps her own mount. She already commanded the mage army, what difference would it make if she did so while riding upon a pegasus, like the dark fliers?

_You’d actually have to learn to ride a flying horse, idiot._

Right. She didn’t exactly have the time or patience to master controlling non-verbal living creatures.

A creak echoed through the chamber. Robin raised her head towards the origin of the noise. In glided a tall, vivacious woman, every inch a traditional Plegian beauty, with her rich tanned skin, silky white hair and symmetrical tattoos. And, of course, curves in all the right places. Robin was no slouch when it came to the female body, but it was buried under the heft of her robes. Aversa, however, somehow oozed effortless feminine mystique no matter what she wore. It was a good thing Robin liked her or she’d be yet another chip on her overburdened shoulder.

“Robin.”

“Hello, Aversa.”

“Long day?”

“Dreadfully.”

“You look positively drained.”

“That spell took far more out of me than I thought it would,” Robin admitted quietly, “I don’t know how I was able to even stand, afterwards.”

“A little crow told me you’d cast Meteor,” Aversa said, “A surprise. Your power has grown tremendously, to be able to control a spell older than the Schism.”

“I thank you for the compliment, but this power comes at a price,” Robin sighed, turning her head away, “I am expected at the Table, and with enough magic to wipe it clean of Ylissians.”

“Oh?” Aversa’s expression was dubious at best, “And when would that be?”

“In three days.”

“That’s preposterous. Three days isn’t enough to replenish your magic. Two weeks, ideally, but even one week would suffice before you are pressed again into war.”

“But that is what I have been ordered to do. You know I cannot disobey.”

Aversa inclined her head, conceding, “Indeed.”

“I don’t know what on earth they think I am capable of,” Robin’s voice was strained with desperation, “How could I possibly measure up to their expectations? I can see the end of the war, Aversa, and it is coming sooner than they know. It is not ours to win, not without a miracle. I know that the moment I fall, the die will have been cast. By the gods, I am _terrified_. If I were to _fail_ at this juncture…”

“Dearest Robin, calm yourself. Your victories were not hollow things. They were hard fought, were they not?”

She hesitated momentarily, “Yes.”

“And did you ever, at any point, throw caution to the wind? Did you not methodically assess every inch of the battlefield before making your decisions?”

“… No.”

“Your father and the king expect great things from you, because you are capable of them. You must learn not to let the burden of expectation crush you. No matter, darling, you are weakened. You are vulnerable. You need rest. Come, let me prepare your bath.”

“I am not a god, Aversa,” Robin countered weakly, “I cannot render the miracle they are asking for.”

“Not yet, my dear,” Aversa smiled at her, “Not yet.”

Aversa offered her hand and gently pulled her to her feet. After a moment’s pause, Robin pulled off her gloves with a slight grimace and threw them into a nearby basket. As she unbuttoned the front of her coat, Aversa helped her shrug it off, folding it in her arms as she walked into the heart of the chamber. A large wading pool had been carved directly into the cliff face upon which the palace had been erected, water pouring into it through canals and cleverly concealed pipes. As Aversa began drawing magic circles in the four cardinal directions around the pool, Robin continued to disrobe. She kicked off her boots and placed her camisole and breeches on top of her gloves. As she reached for the hem of her small clothes, she felt her muscles pull with ache, the fatigue only now starting to hit her.

“Robin, darling, step into the water.”

Rubbing her face, Robin took a deep breath and finished undressing. She limped towards the pool, slowly descending the stone steps until she was in the middle, the water coming just below her breasts. She cupped the water in her hands, a drifting flower petal rippling in the centre, and she washed her face with it. 

Aversa held a tome open before her with her left hand and raised her right hand. She began chanting a spell in an olden tongue. In the four cardinal directions, stones from which they distilled a soma for replenishing magical power had been placed in the middle of each magic circle. Aversa’s continued chanting made the stones glow, softly at first, and then slowly into a bright luminescent blue that lit up in the darkness. Threads of magic blue light began to slither through the air, like vapours, and they criss-crossed between each of the stones. The water of the wading pool shone brightly in the same luminescent blue, and Robin closed her eyes before slowly submerging her entire body.

She felt as though she were adrift in the middle of a great ocean, breathing water like a fish. It was cold, almost icy, the chill settling into her skin and seeping in through every pore, but Robin could feel a tingling of magic at her fingertips, gathering inside her chest, slowly growing stronger. She opened her eyes. All around her was the bright blue of the water. Her feet could not touch the bottom of the stone pool, neither could she reach out and break the surface of the water with her hands. She floated, deeper and deeper into the cold embrace of the water, allowing the fatigue to melt away. Despite the fog of magic that seemed to envelop her senses, a familiar burning sensation pierced through the cold, barely noticeable at first. It began as embers, flickering impotently, but the flame grew hotter and hotter and soon Robin found herself keeling over, tightly gripping the wrist of her right hand as the brand of the six-eyed dragon _burned_. She tried to scream but her voice would not come, only bubbles from her mouth that soon disappeared into the light.

There were flashes. Incense. Smoke. Gangrel taking her hand. The burning smell of ash flower. Six gleaming eyes. His hand, gripping the iron rod. Jagged teeth and obsidian black hide. A darkened sky. Lightning. _Vile._ A scream she could not scream. The screech of a dragon. Blood, boiling, burning, disintegrating, under her skin. The purple brand searing in her hand. Burning flesh. The screams. _The Magister!_ The beat of wings, leathery and black. Black pegasi circling overhead. Ylissian soldiers retreating from the battlefield. Six gleaming eyes staring right back _into her_ —

Robin gasped as she broke the surface. She stood on both feet, feeling the thrum of magic running through her very veins as she raised her palms across from her chest to look at them. They shook. When she turned them, all she could see was the fading glow of the purple brand on the back of her right hand. She gripped her wrist, wishing it wouldn’t _shake_ so.

The pains and the visions were growing stronger and more frequent. With each arcane spell she cast, each more powerful, more necessarily powerful than the last, the six-eyed dragon seemed to awaken in her mind, burning the brand on her hand, making her see terrible things. A darkened sky. A mighty beast. The stench of death. The Felldragon Grima, awakened after centuries of slumber.

In the distance, she was vaguely aware of a knock. Aversa answered it. They spoke in an undertone for but a moment. The door closed. 

“The king summons you to his chambers tonight,” and although Robin could hear her voice echoing in the room, she seemed so very far away.

Robin squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her branded hand against her forehead.

She did not know what the next spell would bring, but she had to be prepared.


	3. Consumed

Gangrel poured himself wine, lazily taking in the view of the horizon as he stood on the high balcony that overlooked the Dragon’s Table. Like much of the palace, it had been carved into the very rock of an ancient Plegian mountain, teeming with magical ore that formed the foundation of their mystical roots. He drank from his goblet, resting his hand against the railing as he assessed the movement of his troops from that great distance. They were like a swarm of black ants protecting their nest, fighting tooth and nail for survival. The mage army stood at the rear, conjuring their spells from a distance as axemen served as their shield, sending out bursts of colour like fireworks against a night sky. 

On the other side, the Ylissians. They excelled in melee combat and seemed to overpower the Plegian frontlines, held back only by frenetic battle magic. In their gleaming silver armour and blue tunics, they believed themselves to be a proponent of justice, a cabal of light, the righteous followers of Naga. Gangrel’s grip tightened. Hatred festered in his heart. For how long had he dreamed of this sight? How many years had he planned this, to bring the Ylissians to slaughter upon the Dragon’s Table? To drink from the sweet draught of vengeance? Oh, but how parched he was. He knew his thirst would be quenched only by the sight of the Exalt, taking the knee and begging for absolution. Begging, like the swine-dog he was, for his life. As though it would be enough to bury the decades of anguish and humiliation suffered the Plegians. No, Gangrel would savour that moment, draw it out for as long as he could, and he would drink of that sweet draught as he watched the hope drain from the Exalt’s eyes. A simple decapitation would not come even remotely close to bringing him the true satisfaction he desired. 

“Lord Brother.”

Gangrel clicked his tongue and turned, “You interrupt me.”

Validar paused, “My apologies. I wasn’t aware. Shall I come back…?”

“Too late now. What is it?”

Validar resumed his steps and stood beside Gangrel, casting his eyes upon the sight that was the battlefield, “It appears the Ylissian vanguard has equipped themselves with anti-magic armaments. Our spells wither against their swords. Enchantments, I fear, by powerful Ylissian sages.”

“Hnn,” Gangrel replied noncommittally, gazing at his soldiers, “What of it?”

“Our numbers are small against the enemy, and with the garrison of mages we’ve dispatched to the frontlines through our dark fliers, we will not be able to hold,” Validar took a steadying breath, “This is a crucial moment, Lord Brother. A tactical retreat is advisable.”

“Ha! Retreat! Who’d have thought a stiff like you could ever be amusing?”

“Brother, I don’t think you understand—”

“The Table has been set, brother,” Gangrel’s eyes reeked of bloodlust, “The pieces are in place. Tonight, the dragon dines. Do you see that banner? It is the banner of the Exalt. The Exalt himself! Dirtying his dainty silken breeches, he has come to grace us with his presence with his army of gallant white dogs. What a shame to disappoint such an enthusiastic showing, wouldn’t you say? Blood will spill on this day, brother mine. And if it comes at the cost of Plegian lives, well, what a petty price it is indeed.”

Validar looked at him in alarm, trying to speak in a measured way but his anxiety betrayed him, “Brother, we simply cannot defeat them at this rate. Our forces have decayed since our last meeting. They all but slaughtered Campari’s forces at the Border Wastes! The mage army is effectively halved and the only thing that stands between our infantry and our mages is the Wyvern Brigade, whose scales can withstand aught but their blessed arrows. Without our full magic power, this day will mark the death of all remaining Plegians once the Ylissians break through!”

“Shut _up_ , brother,” Gangrel hissed through his teeth, though his grin took on a manic edge, “Such braying ill-suits the Hierophant of Plegia. Do you think me a king who cannot command? Who cannot see the foreseeable? Let the Ylissians come! Let them think themselves the victors! Their arrogance will draw them ever closer across the line! I will crush their confidence with such might and awe that has not befallen their kingdom since the Schism, and they will perish on the Table, their faces cast in eternal horror as they meet death.”

Validar was moved to silence, hesitant to say anything, incapable of predicting whatever it could be that Gangrel had hidden up his sleeve. He knew enough that he wasn’t going to like it, no matter the outcome.

“Summon Robin,” Gangrel said, voice filled with a sick sort of glee, “And fetch the Tome of Nights.”

“Brother! I must protest _emphatically_! Robin has expended considerable strength in her last battle! Her magic has barely replenished, and even at full strength, there is no guarantee she could control spells so ancient and arcane—”

Gangrel stopped Validar’s speech with a hard stare that seemed to make his very blood run cold. There was power there, power of a High King, and Validar found himself unable to speak even though he wished to.

“You fear our wyverns fall, Validar?” Gangrel’s voice held little warmth, and Validar’s name on his tongue made his blood run cold, “Has Robin not taken care of the Ylissian archers that would fell them? Perhaps it is their pegasus knights that bring you pause. But have we not a pegasus army of our own, and one fitted with wind magic that would blast their feathered beasts into the void? Or could it be the Ylissian princeling come play general, hmm? But has Robin not bested him at every turn? You doubt the power that lurks within your own blood?”

The force that stilled his tongue released its grip on him. “Even so, Robin is not- Even if she _were_ at full strength, which she _isn’t_ , brother, no one is capable of controlling the elder spells from the Tome of Nights! The concentration, the experience, the control; Robin’s magic may be powerful and her life force vast, but even she is bested by such arcane power. She cannot control the Tome. No one can.”

Gangrel chuckled, low and gravelly, “You are wrong in this, brother. You’ve been defeated already by the weakness in your mind. Us? Fall to the Ylissians? Our soldiers may be swatted down like flies, but have we truly lost? The measurement of our success and failure is only a matter of opinion. Much like our capability to cast dusty old spells. They’re old, of course, but were they not created under the province of a mage such as yourself, hmm? A simple old human wrote that book, didn’t they? A human with magic? And what is Robin but a human with some magic?”

“Brother, listen, you cannot possibly expect—”

“Oh, but I _do_. I _do_ expect. I fully expect Robin to bleed out the entire Plegian army for power to cast that spell if that is what she needs. She is an obedient little wife, your daughter, eager to fulfil my every whim. She tries so very hard to please, now that her leash has been loosened, and she knows better than to defy my wishes. She _will_ cast the spell, Validar. And trust me, for her good and Plegia’s, she _will_ succeed. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

He tried to protest but the words would not leave his lips. Validar could only clench his hands into fists and bow his head, wordlessly. Gangrel looked on in satisfaction and returned his gaze to the battlefield.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“The Magister comes!”

The swarm of black parted down the centre as a solitary hooded figure marched to the edge of the mage garrison with both palms spread by her sides, as though dragging an invisible force along the ground. Static crackled around her, the windswept desert coming to a standstill to herald her arrival. The Plegian army neatly reformed a protective circle around her, giving her ample room to begin her casting as they continued to fend off the Ylissian attack. Shouts announcing her entrance continued to sound throughout the battlefield and the Ylissians pressed on even harder. She had yet to attack. They had to get to her before she began.

Robin inhaled slowly. Her hands were shaking.

It was so very loud on the Dragon’s Table; the clashing of steel, the blowing of battle horns, raised voices, the incessant chanting of mages, the sound of magic spells vaporising their targets. It was too difficult to concentrate. She was trying to reach out for something to anchor her spiritually, but the sound of the present prevented her from doing what she needed to. She squeezed her eyes shut as she extended her very fingertips into the space around her, a physical gesture to mirror her mental efforts, able only to faintly sense a hum of magic from beyond the void. She felt blind, reaching out aimlessly in the darkness for something that was barely there. Her senses were not strong, weakened from her previous exertions. She had to focus. She had to _listen_.

Robin exhaled slowly, forcing herself to keep calm, centring herself as she felt her life force swirling under her skin, coming together into a tight little ball that seemed to settle down in her feet. She needed to be meditative. Robin cleared her mind, reaching out to feel just how much strength she possessed. Her fingers twitched. She wiggled her toes. She took in a deep breath.

When she opened her eyes, all around her was dark and empty. There wasn’t a trace of sand or rock or soldier. More importantly, it was quiet. Silent. She could only hear the slow beating of her heart, the softness of her breathing. Robin exhaled. She extended her arms, focusing on the feeling of magic under her skin, the thrum of coursing lifeblood, the millions of hearts beating on the battlefield around her in the physical world. She needed power. She needed blood. She needed the very breath of those around her. She needed their life force.

Her fingers quivered. It was warm, a swell of power drawing from the darkness into her hands. In the void, specks of light began to flicker, like embers in the wind, with nary an ounce of strength, as fleeting as a throng of dying fireflies. But as she fell deeper into her trance, those specks grew in strength, from a flickering flame to an unwavering light. The lights grew, in size, in power, in brightness and she was almost blinded. Yes, this was it. This was the power that existed all around her. This was the power she needed. She opened up her inner self and all the lights around her surged into her physical body, an unwavering assault that made her more clearly able to see and hear and smell that life force she was taking and taking and taking and—

Robin opened her eyes, jolted back into the present. A hurricane had begun whipping into a frenzy, the magical wind through which her power manifested, and she stood at the eye of it. She was aware of the weakened spells of her battle mages that were slowly losing the ability to effectively hold back the Ylissians. She had taken too much power. She was bursting with strength. She felt she could barely contain the sheer force of magic that was coursing through her body.

She needed more power. She couldn’t take any more power. She needed time. She was running out of time.

She hesitated. She couldn’t hesitate.

From her coat, she pulled out a tome, wrapped in a swathe of black silk. Its wrappings fell and she held it open with her left hand, pressing her right palm flat against the open pages. She closed her eyes and took a final, steadying breath.

And then she began chanting. 

The hurricane intensified. It swirled around her, sending hats and papers and stray books flying, growing in velocity until the red sand of the Dragon’s Table came up like a great dust storm that seemed to swallow everything in its path, Ylissian and Plegian alike. It was too much. Robin grimaced, finding herself unable to control it. It was too much power. She had to focus. She had to make it smaller. She had to concentrate it. Her entire body shook with exertion as she forced herself to pull in every ounce of magic she had gathered, pull it tight into a smaller and smaller ball, but the smaller the ball, the greater the power it contained. Her chanting continued unbroken but her body felt like it would split from limb to limb from the sheer force. She couldn’t stop now. She couldn’t let it go. It was too much. She could feel how unstable her own life force was. It would consume her. She couldn’t let it. She couldn’t control it.

Robin screamed, willing herself to be stronger, willing her body to withstand the onslaught of magic, willing herself to _hold on_ , for just a moment longer, and then… 

The dust cleared. The wind stopped. In its wake, complete and utter silence.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“ _Swallow mine enemies in the eternal dark! I summon thee! **ECLIPSE**!_ ”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

From the centre of the Plegian army, a shout, and pillar of light shot upwards into the sky directly into the sun, too blinding to see with the naked eye. It shook with power, rough around the edges, barely contained, and as the pillar wavered in shape, once, twice, thrice, like a cracking dam, magic and power poured out of the pillar and covered the Dragon’s Table in an unstoppable wave, a flood of light that drowned out all sound and sense and then…

The sun extinguished, plunging the battlefield in an impenetrable darkness.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

His body ached. Chrom could feel his head splitting, his muscles protesting as he tried to get himself up. He groaned, not quite himself and not quite able to feel his own limbs. Yet, somehow, he pushed himself onto his feet, wheezing with exertion, as though there was not enough oxygen in the air around him or in his very lungs. He stumbled, leaning against a crumbling ruin for support. The pain in his head lessened into a mild pounding. He rubbed his eyes, hoping to clear it of sand, wondering for the life of him why it was so damned dark. Had he been blinded? And yet, he did not feel as though this was what blindness felt like. Perhaps if he stared into the darkness for long enough, his sight would adjust.

What folly, to think that.

Perhaps it was in his own mind, but he felt as though he could make out the boulders and shields that littered the ground as he forced himself to move forwards, slowly knocking into them less and less and stepping over them instead. It was nigh impossible for him to regain his bearings, not when it was dark and not when it was so quiet. Yet his throat was too sore and when he opened his mouth to shout for his guard, no sound would come. It was as though every inch of him, his thoughts, his voice, his senses, his body, had been swallowed by the darkness. The thought put a note of dread in his heart, but he could not entertain it as he pushed ahead. If this were hell, if he were dead, he was sure his body wouldn’t _ache_ so.

As he regained his presence of mind, Chrom did, in fact, began to realise that there were very specific points in his body that were rather badly hurt. His side, for one, was throbbing with every step he took. He touched it and winced at the sharpness that cut through the fog. He was bleeding. Every which way he turned his body made the muscles in his back protest. Right… he had been whipped not a few days ago, and the cuts had just healed. He was slightly dragging his right foot, unable to quite put his whole weight on it. He was banged up. With the exception of the bleeding, things could have been much worse.

Grunting, Chrom kept walking, feeling more and more clarity with each step. He wondered if he was imagining the darkness brightening, but he swore he could make out the silhouettes of distant buildings now. He thought he recognised them… old shelters built by the desert nomads. They had been built on the edge of the Dragon’s Table, a final refuge before the punishing heat and breadth of the desert that protected the Plegian heartland. The battlefield was just up ahead. Surely he could meet another there, one who could explain what in the blazes Chrom was experiencing. 

He kept walking, pressing his palms against palm trees and dusty clay walls to guide his way and to stop him from falling over. He wasn’t imagining it now, he was sure. It was definitely growing brighter. Squinting upwards, he saw a thin ring of light illuminating the darkness, barely visible, but definitely there. As he continued to watch it, the ring morphed into a crescent, pouring more light through the atmosphere. A solar eclipse. Odd. Ominous. The palace sages surely would have informed them of such a phenomenon to prepare for darkness upon the battlefield. And yet, was it not too quiet for a battlefield? It was utterly devoid of noise. It had been for a while now, in fact.

Something was wrong.

Chrom walked faster, feeling more himself as his surroundings began to light up with the passing of the eclipse. There was dread in his heart as he half-ran past the final desert shelter, standing on the edge of the Dragon’s Table. Overhead, the darkness passed in its entirety.

The battlefield was completely decimated.

The red sand of the Dragon’s Table had been completely blown away, revealing a glittering white rock that formed the foundation of the desert. There had been an explosion of great amplitude, originating from some point in the middle of the Table. The explosion’s origin was completely devoid of anything; be it rock or tree or human. In a great ring around it, it was empty of any traces of war. Only at the very edges of the Dragon’s Table could Chrom make out shreds of cloth and armour, spearheads and tattered pages. There were a scattering of limbs, severed from their bodies, just outside the boundary of the explosion. He didn’t look too hard, didn’t want to, didn’t have to to know that the explosion, from whomever it had come, had destroyed friend and foe alike.

It was enough to make one sick.

“Hello?” Chrom finally called out, his voice rough and croaked at first, but clearing his throat, he was able to say again, “Is anybody out there?”

He walked along the edges of the Dragon’s Table, too aware that to venture onto it would be futile, perhaps even inauspicious. Too many thoughts raced through his head. Could this have been the work of the Plegians, or something on a far more cosmic scale? The Dragon’s Table had always been rife with myth and magic, and perhaps the occurrence of the eclipse had done something to destabilise the Table. Ylissians knew little of these matters, save what their sages could share, but theirs was not a culture of magic. Chrom could only run softly and continue to shout, asking for survivors. He steadfastly ignored the corpses and body parts that remained deathly still.

He didn’t know how long he ran for, how far. His throat was dry. The sun was hot. The desert was vast, even if he did not run atop it. He was no fool.

And then, in the marshes that bordered the Plegian desert, he misstepped and stumbled, tumbling down a small incline and rolling into a clearing. His fall was broken only by something soft and sturdy. 

It was a dead body.

“God almighty,” Chrom scrambled backwards, away from the corpse. He knew better than to desecrate the dead, but more importantly, no one knew what such a vast magical explosion could have left in its wake. One couldn’t be too careful. He apologised quietly in his heart for landing on the corpse, though it were a Plegian. 

Although… something wasn’t quite right.

He forced himself to look again. It was definitely a Plegian. The dye on the coat, the six eyes of the Felldragon on the sleeve… 

Six eyes… on the sleeve?

“No,” Chrom shot to his feet and sprinted to the body, and kneeled next to it, turning it over, “It couldn’t be.”

And yet, it was most definitely the Magister. 

The Magister of Plegia.

Dead.

“Is she dead?” Chrom asked himself, pulling off his gloves and touching the exposed skin of her neck beneath her jaw. She was cold. After a moment’s hesitation, he leaned forward and pressed his ear against her chest, straining to listen.

It could very well have been his imagination. But.

But.

He swore he heard a heartbeat.

He _swore_.

It was barely there, barely there, but it was _there_.

She lived. The Magister of Plegia was _alive_.

What to do now? Chrom could feel excitement welling up in him, anxiety and anger and anticipation a heady mix that made him feel faint. Here he was, the Magister of Plegia in his arms, on death’s door. What could he do? What _should_ he do? He’d promised Frederick he’d have her head on a platter or a pike. He glanced to the side. His own sword was still firmly sheathed at his waist. 

He could kill her. 

Her death was well deserved after the thousands she had slain in battle. This was war. It was a suitable price. A head was an easier thing to carry than a body, after all.

Chrom paused. Hesitated.

Could he cut her head off? Her face was unknown to the vast Ylissian armies. Captured Plegian mages either chose not to or simply were unable to describe her face to them. She could blend in seamlessly with the rest of the army if she so decided to. This was a golden opportunity to learn her identity, learn it, memorise it. To finally know the face of his greatest rival. To kill her without knowing her face would be to keep her nameless, anonymous. Chrom could never honour her death in that anonymity. It was not his way. And she was worthy of that honour.

Suddenly overcome with curiosity, Chrom pulled her hood off her head.

He paused.

She was not… what he expected.

She did not have the tan colouring of Plegian women, though her short cropped white hair indicated she did, indeed, have Plegian blood. Her face bore no tattoos and she wore no jewellery, with nothing indicative of her stature but her clothes. She looked… _young_. Younger than her deep commanding voice seemed to indicate. Her face was smooth, without a scar or imperfection. She surely could be no older than Chrom himself. And such a woman had bested him, time and again? 

The thought was galling.

Almost as galling as hurting her, like this.

She could be a body double for all he knew. Better to be safe than sorry, after all. Most Plegians were blessed with the talent of magic and if the Magister had a body double, well surely she would have power enough to protect herself from harm. 

Death at this juncture would be too swift. Too swift for justice’s sake.

He wanted to be sure, to be _damnably_ sure, that this woman was the Magister. He wanted to know he wasn’t just killing some poor girl who had the misfortune of wearing the wrong robes. To execute her without knowing would be premature, and what if the true Magister were to reappear after this woman’s death? Above all, he wanted her to face judgement before the people, _his_ people, that she had cruelly slaughtered. 

And Chrom had enough honour not to fell an enemy who was unarmed and unconscious. 

He was not being soft hearted. He _would_ kill her. But better to kill her in Ylisstol, as a prisoner. Her death would be the final nail in Plegia’s coffin. They would crumble with her loss.

Chrom carefully gathered the Magister in his arms and stood. The burden was heavy on his wound, but he had much ground to cover and little time to cover it in. Before she awoke, he had to prepare himself. And this deep in Plegian territory, Chrom could not afford to waste even a second.


	4. The Aftermath

There was naught but silence in the audience hall of the Plegian Palace, overly loud and grating to the ear, broken only by the faint and intermittent buzz of locusts. It was a silence that was unnatural, uneasy. The urge to fidget was strong, but the scoutmaster remained still as a statue where he kneeled before the throne. He did not dare speak, not without permission.

Although the Mad King was draped across his throne in the usual lackadaisical fashion that was his wont, he had been uncharacteristically quiet from the beginning of the audience. And silence was something to fear in Gangrel, whose casual mockery and cruel japes were commonplace but indicated a pleasant humour. Silence, however… His silence was like the calm before a storm. Gangrel was rarely angry, no, but only because he was not capable of simple anger. 

To his left stood the Hierophant, who, in contrast, was a picture of chilling rage, drawn up to his full height with lips pursed tightly, nostrils flared, as though holding himself back.

The silence grew heavier and heavier with each passing moment. But still he did not dare say anything.

Finally, Validar spoke.

“Continue.”

The scoutmaster did not know if he should respond, not when he should rightfully await the king’s orders, but he could not bear it anymore. He drew in a steadying breath.

“With regards to the,” his expression was deceptively calm, though he seemed to keep his eyes fixed at a point just below Gangrel’s chin, “The 2nd Mage Battalion, I regret to report that… there are only four who survived, each grievously injured.”

There was still no reply from Gangrel, who seemed to be looking at nothing in particular some distance away. Validar cleared his throat and spoke in a sharp, controlled voice, “What manner of injury?”

The scoutmaster’s voice grew slightly hushed, “… shock to the brain. Devastation of the nerves. Blindness. Complete loss of magical energies. Some in concurrence with another.”

Gangrel’s lips twitched upwards, aborted laughter in a shadow of a sneer.

Validar inhaled sharply, “Continue.”

“The same is true of the 5th and 6th Mage Battalions, Your Worship. There are more missing than dead on either side,” the scoutmaster’s tone seemed to be one of reluctant admission, “It is as though the Table had been wiped clean of all traces of battle. Of our fighting forces, we have only been able to account for a quarter. The rest are… vanished.”

“Vanished,” he echoed, “And what of the Magister?”

The scoutmaster swallowed, wavering for the first time, “Yet… Yet to be found, Your Worship.” 

“ _Is that so?_ ” Validar asked frostily, making the guardsmen flinch, levelling him with a glare that could have frozen the Plegian sun, “With so little left of the Dragon’s Table, one would think it a _simple task_ to locate the whereabouts of a single person, _scoutmaster_. Or have we been mistaken in putting our trust in your abilities?”

“No, Your Worship,” he replied hurriedly, “My scouts continue to comb every inch of the desert as we speak. The search ends not.”

“See that it doesn’t,” Validar snapped, “Now leave us.”

“Your Worship. Your Majesty,” he bowed deeply and retreated hastily.

The closing doors echoed in the chambers, loudly at first, but growing softer and softer until it thinned into all but a whisper that settled into the silence.

With an angry roar, Validar picked up the closest thing he could get his hands on and hurled it against one of the great stone pillars. It shattered into a thousand pieces, falling to the floor in a rain of glass whose patters resonated throughout the hall like a swift summer storm. He swept away candlesticks and scrolls from a table top before upending the table and rounding on an unmoved Gangrel, heaving with exertion. He let out a final cry of anguish and frustration, screaming at the ground, before rising to his full height and pointing a bony finger at the king accusingly.

“You!” He shouted, face red, wisps of his well-oiled hair falling into his eyes, loosened by his outburst, “This is your doing! Did I not say that we were ill-equipped to fight this battle? Did I not tell you that Robin was weak? Did I not tell you that no one – _no one_ – could control the Tome of Nights? _Did I not?_ Look what you have done, you fool! Look!” He stabbed the air behind him, in the direction of the battle field, a frenzy working up in him, “And for what? What vengeance was worth this cost? You are King, Gangrel! King! With a single word, look what you have wrought! Thousands, dead! Our people, dead! And Robin—”

Validar cut himself off, forcing himself to take slow, measured breaths. Despite the thundering in his ears and his boiling blood, he held his tongue, eyes narrowed in loathing, voice pitched low.

“By the Felldragon, so help me, Gangrel. If anything befalls that child, I will take your head myself. You understand? After her mother’s death, I’ve poured years, Gangrel, _years_ into her care. Years I’ve spent grooming her to be a worthy queen. Years I’ve spent for the future of Plegia. You would undo _years_? Years of careful planning? Years of utter devotion?”

With nary an indication that he had even noticed the outburst, Gangrel gestured vaguely in Validar’s direction, eyes still adrift, afar, as though trying to see something beyond the Dragon’s Table. A stray thought seemed to occur to him and he loosed an absentminded chuckle. Were Validar calmer, he would think that his brother seemed lost.

Instead, Validar bit his tongue, gaze hardening. He threw his mantle over his shoulder and stormed out the hall, a dark expression clouding his face.

Robin must be found. A corpse was better than nothing at all.

But Robin _must_ be found.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Not too far away, in the ambulatory of the palace temple that had been converted into a field hospital, Aversa laid in a makeshift cot, heavily bandaged. She was staring up at the mosaic tiles that adorned the ceiling as she listened to the sound of clerics tending to the wounded, exchanging news, death tolls, prayers.

Her pegasus had died in the blast, died protecting her. He’d been a strong, reliable stallion with a stubborn streak a league wide, whom she’d reared as a foal. He listened to no one but her. She remembered, just as the pillar of light exploded, dark feathers wrapping around her face and body and as they rolled away. So little was left of him. So little. 

Her lip trembled and she bit down on it in an attempt to steady herself.

“… what news?”

“Little, I’m afraid… still searching for survivors…”

“Have you seen… Wyvern Brigade?”

“ Yes, but it’s not pretty… thank goodness… far away enough…”

“… completely decimated…”

“I know, my own platoon… managed to escape…”

“… scouts reporting that… you think that…”

“Yeah, maybe… right at the front lines…”

“What about…?”

“Don’t know yet. Still waiting to… not enough people…”

“Yeah, but imagine… if the Exalt… the war would be over...”

“… think it worth it…”

“But at least we still have our King… Hierophant still…”

“… Magister remains lost…”

The words rung in her ears, unable to be ignored even if Aversa dearly wished she could do so.

_And yet, the Magister remains lost._

The Magister was the symbol of the Plegian army, as much its military leader as the Exalt was to the Ylissians. Although the High King was the one to whom they pledged their allegiance, it was the Magister who fought at the helm of the mage army, who made up the bulk of the Plegian forces. What the Plegians lacked, she alone made up for in sheer firepower. Countless lives had been saved time and again thanks to her. Their trust in her was unshakeable. Their faith in her ability to pull them from the jaws of defeat, time and time again, was unbreakable. She was a god, a god amongst men.

And now, she was lost.

The Magister, lost.

Their god, lost.

Her mage sister, lost.

Despite the pain, Aversa raised her arms up and covered her face with her hands.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Oof,” Chrom stumbled and tried to regain his balance, but, still weak, he collapsed, dropping the body he had been carrying with a humiliatingly loud _thud_. He scrambled to his knees to make sure he hadn’t done any serious damage, met only by the sight of what he had become all too familiar with: Pale face, almost blue lips, a chest that was altogether too still. Relief, anxiety and frustration filled him in equal parts. Nothing had changed, which meant he hadn’t injured her (as far as he knew, which was all that mattered). But nothing had _changed_ , not for the past two days. And because nothing had changed, he was effectively attempting to transport a dead body across the Plegian marshes and into the Ylissian line. He needed to resuscitate her somehow. It would certainly ease the toll of carrying her himself, despite his own sapped strength. And knowing that she lived would certainly inspire greater motivation to survive, to see justice met. 

Also, if she continued to appear dead, Chrom would feel no compunction in dropping her more than he already had (and he already had, thrice).

“Maybe this is a terrible idea,” Chrom wheezed, dropping himself bottom-first and leaning back against the trunk of a thick and leafy mangrove tree, “Maybe that blast of magic has made me go insane.”

He glanced briefly at the Magister’s still body, lying two feet away.

“You’ve made me go insane,” he said, exhaustion having thinned his animosity, but it was still there, just bubbling beneath the surface, and now that his legs had finally given up the ghost, all he had was his anger, “You did this, didn’t you? You casted the spell that blocked out the sun and obliterated every living thing on the desert. I don’t know which demon you’ve supped with for such unholy power, but what you’ve done is unforgiveable. Do you hear me, Magister? You’ve left no bodies even to bury. You’ve denied my people their final rites. You _monster_.”

It was only when he said it that he realised how much truth his words held.

He had been so preoccupied with the task of transporting her back behind Ylissian lines, he hadn’t given himself the opportunity to really think about what had happened.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

One moment, all was as it was meant to be.

The Plegian mages were strong, as usual, but their numbers had thinned considerably. Ylissians were not a historically bloodthirsty sort, but it could not be denied that killing was a talent that they had honed since the commencement of hostilities. And the deep-rooted enmity between them merely served to stoke the bloodlust. Despite being relegated to the rear, Chrom could see the battle raging on feverishly on the desert. 

And then: A great pillar of light, shot up into the sun from the sea of Plegian mages in the distance. The very air around him hummed with power. He remembered his cape and his hair floating upwards, as though no longer tethered by gravity. His own body was almost weightless in that brief instant. But he had been so far from the epicentre; it shocked him so much that he had been rendered speechless and immobile, helpless to do aught but bear witness to the inevitable outcome. 

And then: The pillar exploded, a light that was whiter and brighter than the sun flooding the horizon and blinding all who had the misfortune of being near.

And then: Darkness.

All encompassing. A blackness darker than any night. It swallowed all light, all sound, all sensation. 

As though the world had come to an end.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 _What power_ , Chrom thought for the first time, reliving the moment it felt that all breath had been stolen from his lungs by the impenetrable darkness, discovering that his body had begun to tremble at the thought, _What terrible power._

It was the power of a god.

And what was Chrom but a mere mortal?

His eyes travelled to the prone woman, almost lifeless in her appearance, still and pale as a corpse.

This was she, the Magister of Plegia, Mage Commander of the Plegian Mage Army, the bane of all Ylissians. This was the one who had commenced the slaughter of a thousand Ylissians with a single spell. This was she who had outwitted their spies and scouts over and over and over again, prolonging a war that should have been theirs to win. This was the woman who had flooded the sun with her power and stolen away life, stolen it so _wholly_ that there was barely a speck of it left on the battlefield. 

This was a woman more powerful than she had any right to be. 

With the power of a god.

A god.

And here she was, helpless at his feet.

After everything that she had done, could he really just _let her live_?

This was the chance to kill her, be done with her, take the opportunity to _end _it before she regained consciousness and power. What better time? What better chance?__

__He had always thought of her as an extraordinarily powerful mage; indeed, she was _Magister_ , a class of mage so powerful that there was only one every dynasty. Coupled with her fiendish intellect, she was an opponent to be feared, yes, but still very human. Still prone to fatigue. Still accountable for her actions as a single person, a mere stone in the great river of war._ _

__But she wasn’t a mere stone._ _

__He didn’t know what she was._ _

__Whatever she was… it wasn’t human. It wasn’t _normal_. It was something that shouldn’t exist. Shouldn't be allowed to exist._ _

__He gripped his sword by the hilt and unsheathed it, despite the ache in his muscles._ _

__A head was an easier thing to carry than a body._ _

__He dragged himself closer, positioning Falchion above her throat. He tried to focus on the pale lines of her neck, the orientation of her jugular, but it was her blue lips and closed eyes that continued to draw his attention. He raised his blade high above his head, regripping it tightly, cursing for his lack of strength. Still, he braced himself for the fatal blow._ _

__With her eyes closed, she looked like any other woman._ _

__“Wait, Chrom,” he said to himself, voice faltering, lowering his blade, “Think with your head, you dolt, not your heart. Would someone who could cast that sort of spell do it if they couldn’t withstand it? You’ve seen her at work; she’s done things, impossible things that would never even faze her. She’s crazy but not foolish. And she’s certainly not suicidal. And this…”_ _

__He glanced back in the direction of the desert. He thought about how barren it had become._ _

__She would never sacrifice her own people, not even for the sake of victory. Two years was long enough to know someone, even an enemy, especially one with whom he had shared a long and fraught acquaintance. He _knew_ the Magister. She was conniving and sly, but she had honour on the battlefield. How could he have ever forgotten?_ _

__She was no monster._ _

__He resheathed his sword and collapsed on the ground, drained of all energy. He cast a forlorn glance at her, irritated that she should be unconscious throughout this quandary, though he wondered if it was right of him to feel a little bad for the thought. It wasn’t like being comatose was her choice._ _

__“Still,” he sighed, “There is little purpose in dragging around the infirm if they are destined to die. If that blast doesn’t kill her, malnutrition will.”_ _

__He couldn’t believe that he was trying to heal her. And yet, it was a sentiment that he did not wish to fight._ _

__How foolish it was to know an enemy better, to respect her better than his own family._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, so much stuff has been happening that I haven't been writing at all (writer's block included). I still have all my notes for this story and I do love writing it, so I will do my best to see it to completion, thought it may take ages.


	5. Awakening

_So you awaken._

… what…?

_You awaken as you have awakened me, child, from a slumber of a thousand years._

… a slumber…?

_Yes, I have slept. I have slept since the Schism, pulled into an endless sleep, cursed to never dream. ‘Tis the greatest curse, worse even than death. Oh yes, I have slept. For too long, I have slept._

… how did I wake you…?

_You called me, child. Your solitary voice pierced the veil and aroused me from this terrible exile. Many have called for me, but none have moved me… until now._

… how did I move you…?

_Your devotion, child. What you have offered me is worthy of my attention._

… who are you…?

_I am you, and you are I._

… how could you be me…?

 _We are of one flesh, one blood. When you speak, I am bound to listen._

… but you cannot be me…

_Yet, we are one and the same, you and I._

… how could we be the same… when I have not lived for a thousand years…

_You are wise, child. Wiser than those that came before you. You are worthy._

… worthy of what…?

 _Worthy of my **power**_.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Six yellow eyes shot open in her mind. Fire. A darkened sky. Screeching, terrible and shrill. Lightning. _I am Come._ Five gemstones, sparkling in the light. An army. Scorched earth, charred black beyond recognition. The smell of burning flesh, nauseating. _Appetising._ An army of corpses. A shadow across the rolling fields. An eclipse swallowing the sun and plunging the world in darkness. Shouting. Crying. The screams of a thousand dying men. The stench of blood. The taste of iron. _The draught of life._ A symbol, in tatters. The banner of the Exalt. An imposing figure with six wings fully outstretched, emerging from ring of light in the sky. Six gleaming eyes staring right back _into her_ —

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It was frigid, as though the earth had been enveloped by an unforgiving winter, though the continent was deep into summer. It was dark, an endless night that was dotted not by stars, but by the burning fires that blazed across the land. The wind was cold and cutting, high above the horizon. There was no sun. There was no moon. There was only despair.

Circling the keep from above, there was little that escaped notice.

This was the ruined earth, ripe for plunder. A million souls to reap.

A feast set upon the Dragon’s Table, fit for a god.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It hurts, it hurts, _it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it **burns**_ —

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_Poor thing. You are worthy. But still so weak._

_Rest._

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

A whimper caught his attention from where he had been lighting a fire. Glancing up, he saw that the Magister had moved, though very slightly. Her brow had furrowed, fingers twitching, lip trembling, but it ended as quickly as it had happened. Concerned, Chrom moved to her side, placing a hand gently over her nose and mouth and concentrating. After a moment, he pulled away in relief. She was still breathing. Touching the side of her face, her skin remained cold and clammy. _Corpse-like_ , said a traitorous part of him. This had been the only indication that she wasn’t completely gone. It was a relief. 

Even so, despite his albeit limited knowledge of battlefield infirmities, he knew enough that he couldn’t allow her to continue on in this state. If she didn’t awaken, she couldn’t eat or drink. She could waste away. If she had to die, it would be by his hand and no other.

 _When she dies_ , he told himself hurriedly, _Not ‘if she had to’. She_ will _die._

At the edge of the desert was a humid wetland, littered with swamps and mangroves. It was nothing like the lush evergreen jungles of the north, full of fruit and game, but a treacherous thing that consumed more lives than it sustained. It was a natural border that protected Plegia, contributed to its deadly mystique, and few armies dared to use this path to invade. 

Still, there were some animals that could be eaten; small and unappetising fish and crabs, and the occasional bird. Chrom had never been gladder for the months of trapping and hunting that he’d been forced to do at Khan Basilio’s behest all those years ago, when they flirted with the Plegian marshes, and he prayed that the lessons from his youth would serve him well. 

The trees offered some semblance of shade and protection, from the elements as well as from the Plegians. No doubt the explosion had given him plenty of time to make his escape, even while transporting what was ostensibly a dead body on his own. Still, it would be prudent to make contact with the Ylissians as soon as possible. If not for food and a hot bath, then at the very least to let them know that the prince yet lived.

And he had with him the greatest prize.

Chrom shook his head, “Don’t speak too soon. Focus on surviving. You have to eat something.” And for good measure, even if it did little to no good, he looked at the Magister’s still body – chest only barely visibly rising and falling, and even then, only if you were looking for it – and said, “And that goes for you too. Somehow.”

He returned to his task of starting a fire. His kindling was too damp – not much he could do, in this environment with this climate – and the only other thing he could think of would be to dry them out in the desert. Only…

He glanced back from where he had travelled.

Two days of walking. By Naga, he couldn’t bear that journey.

Under different circumstances, the distance he’d covered would be child’s play. But he was injured and severely lacking in strength. He knew that, somehow, the explosion had completely drained him of almost any power, recalling all too vividly the sensation of his energy being sapped away in that moment before the blinding light. And he had been far, far away from the blast radius. The Magister, on the other hand, undoubtedly had been in the thick of it. And look at her now. No, Chrom simply didn’t have the strength to drag himself all the way back to the Dragon’s Table for the sake of drying out some wood shavings. And even if he did, he was extremely hesitant to leave the Magister alone, away from where he could see. There was little point in wasting what efforts had been made to escape.

And then, there were his injuries. His back seemed to throb with every breath he took. He had managed to wrap his abdomen with a makeshift tourniquet to stem the bleeding from the cut he had sustained from the impact of the blast. His leg was another thing altogether – likely requiring a splint. Seeing as he had limited choices, his sword would have to suffice as a crutch for the time being.

Chrom snorted. The holiest blade in all the land, and it was being used to help an invalid hobble across a marsh, away from the battlefield.

Chrom glared weakly at the Magister, “You could be useful and zap us up a fire. But you can’t. Because you’re unconscious.”

Predictably, she had no response.

He sighed.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Days had passed now. Days, and not a trace of the Magister. 

Well, there was hardly a trace of anything, but that was beside the point. 

She could not be dead. She could not. 

He could not bear to think of it. He would not entertain such an outcome.

Robin was touched by Grima, of that he was sure. She had been a careful creation, the culmination of generations of careful breeding and grooming, distilled only of the finest of the bloodline. As was Validar. However, his powers were but a trifle, hardly sufficient for the greater purpose intended for those of the Plegian House. It was the unfortunate curse of men to carry little magic in their blood. No, Validar had been intended for the throne, but his blood was not favoured by the Fell Dragon.

It was fortunate, then, that he should have coupled with Robin’s mother. Hers was a power that dwarfed even the Mage Commander, and she would have been worthy of the title of Magister were it not for… well.

Well.

It was no use dredging up the past.

In the end, all that mattered was that Robin had been born. And it was certainly an effort justly rewarded, despite the high price; Robin’s power was unparalleled, without equal and without limitations, it seemed. Had it not been for her, the war would surely have been lost years ago. 

She could not be dead.

She could not be _missing_.

“A thousand seers, and none can scry her whereabouts,” Validar hissed, “What in god’s name are our mages doing?!”

“A thousand pardons, Your Worship, but I swear to you that it is not for lack of trying—”

“ _Oh?_ What excuse would you feed me then, Grand Enchanter?”

The man swallowed, but did not hesitate, “The blast was more powerful than anything ever conjured since the Schism, Your Worship. Of that, there is no doubt. However, the amount of power needed to cast Eclipse was…” and here, he struggled, looking for the appropriate word before finally settling on, “…Insufficient. Everything the darkness touched has had energy taken from it.”

Validar’s gaze hardened and he set his jaw.

No more words needed to be said. He jerked his head towards the door, dismissing the Grand Enchanter, and the man bowed and quickly took his leave. 

Insufficient.

It was little wonder why the remaining survivors were so weak. 

That Robin could even conjure Eclipse in the first place, despite her lack of convalescence, was truly astounding. Once she’d dug her heels in and _taken_ the power of others, it had been a sight to behold… right up until the moment the spell had gone awry. It could have been due to any host of reasons; her concentration had broken, she had chanted the wrong incantation, some other magical force had pushed back – but as the Grand Enchanter had himself induced, it was simply the lack of _power_ that had undone everything.

Power. 

All she had needed was enough time to recover. By the gods, if his fool of a brother had given her but _time_ … 

Validar leaned his full weight into his hands as they pressed into the nearby table, hanging his head, fingers curling into shaking fists. There was so much at stake. Too much. He wanted to scream, to destroy, to _kill_ something with his bare hands. 

The familiar presence of his protégé made him straighten his back and turn to face her. She was peering at him wearily from across the hall, heavily bandaged, arm in a sling, her usual cocksure expression replaced with… something else. Something he didn’t like. 

“Aversa,” he said, throat tight, “It pleases me to see you yet live.”

“I would have gladly died if it meant that Robin was not lost to us,” she said, voice thick with emotion as she quickened her step to join his side, “I cannot begin to apologise for my failure to protect her, Your Worship.”

“Hush, child,” he touched her cheek and she looked up at him obediently, “What has happened on the Table was beyond any of us. No one could have predicted what happened.”

“I cannot forgive myself for my lapse,” her voice shook, “I keep thinking that there was more that I could have done, could have said, that could have stopped her from casting that accursed spell…!”

“Hush,” he said, this time more firmly, placing both hands on either side of her head and gently stroking her hair, “It is not our place to question the will of the king.”

“It should be!”

“Still your tongue,” he rebuked, but it held only tiredness, “Such words do not become a priestess. I find myself unable to locate a daughter as is. It would aggrieve me to lose another to the chop.”

“I… I am sorry, Your Worship,” she replied, appropriately chastised, “I did not come to bellyache, I swear it.”

“Then why have you come?”

“I…” Her voice quietened, “I wanted to see how you were. In truth. I’ve heard of your temper but I know there is more to you, Validar. And if you cannot confide in others, surely you can confide in me.”

Speaking his name dispelled the formality and his willpower. He could not be angry at Aversa, and if he could not hold onto his anger, then the only things left to him was enervation and despair.

“I cannot bear it, Aversa,” he pulled away, turning his back to her and lowering his gaze to the floor, “I cannot lose Robin. I cannot bear to think beyond the search. I fear I will die searching. But this palace is filled with _fools_ —”

Validar exhaled slowly, the words of the Grand Enchanter ringing in his ears.

“—no. The palace has only one fool. The others are…” He struggled with the words, hating them, hating that he had to admit to them, “Injured. Weak. What few remain cannot find her with their magic. And I have no doubt that,” _If Robin was not dead_ , he swallowed back that thought, “Robin would surely have little magic left in her after Eclipse.” 

Those with little magic had little life force in them. And it was life force that his seers could scry. 

And if they could not scry for her…

Aversa touched his shoulder with her one good hand, trying hard to keep her voice firm, “Let us focus on recovery and the search. I too am left with little magic after the blast, too little to be scryed for. And yet, I still live.”

Validar turned his head at that.

“As she must be. But no one can know, not now, if it is as you say. So I will recover my strength, my magic, and then I shall join my power with the others to search for her.”

She pressed her forehead against his back, closing her eyes, “I did not want to leave you be. I could not bear the thought of you shouldering this burden alone. I… could not bear to have these thoughts alone.”

He considered her words, her gestures, in his head for but a moment, and turned to gather her in his arms. He was only a man after all, made only of blood and flesh. Even stones could be moved.

“You are a treasure,” he murmured into her hair, “An anchor. I would be lost without you.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Furs trailed behind him on the ground as he shuffled across the polished stone floor towards the balcony that overlooked the Dragon’s Table.

What was once a glittering red was now a blinding white of exposed rock, no longer a sea of glimmering dunes but a solid block of burning stone that roasted all manner of things underneath the relentless Plegian sun. Scouts had died atop it, in search of the body of their beloved Magister. He watched as a man crawled on all fours, reaching powerlessly for the edge of the table, before finally falling, dead. Whereas the Table had once proved dangerous to traverse, merely standing on it now was downright fatal. How fitting.

Gangrel laughed. 

Now, each living thing that would stand on the Dragon’s Table would sacrifice themselves to the Fell Dragon. 

“Fitting indeed,” he said, “Fitting, fitting, fitting.”

All that had been needed was enough magic to blast away the blood-soaked sand that had buried the Table.

“Robin, you pearl. You gem. You treasure. Look at what you’ve wrought. Such miracles. Such power. And absent to see it. How disappointing, wife mine. Disappointing. Ah, but they say you are dead. No, no, that simply cannot be. Return and I shall spare your punishment.”

But those who were not present could not respond.

Gangrel laughed again, taking a long draught of wine from his goblet before tossing it carelessly to the ground.

He raised both hands to the sky.

“O Great Dragon, arise from your slumber. Your servant is come. The Fellblood is risen.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_It burns, it burns, it **burns** —_

The Magister gasped awake, body writhing as she felt each inch of flesh, each nerve and muscle, sear with sheer pain, grasping at the ground beneath her for purchase as she tried to fight the sensation, the sensation of dying. 

Chrom, who had been taking small bites of his roasted bird, scrambled to her side, pinning her down by her wrists.

“Magister!” She thrashed against him, as though blind, as though completely unaware of him, “Magister, calm yourself!”

_I will grant you my strength, but you are still so weak._

“It _burns_ ,” she gasped up at Chrom, unseeing, choking, before her eyes rolled up into her head and she went limp. 

Chrom fell back onto his haunches, catching his breath as he stared wide-eyed at the Magister, whose body had begun to move again, her chest rising and falling as she wheezed painfully despite her state of unconsciousness. Hesitantly, he touched her cheek again. She was sweating, and the cold and death-like state before had given way to a burning fever.

They were running out of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writing is hard. please comment if you like it.


	6. The Wellspring of Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of sex and a bit of body horror.

Chrom wheezed, tired and perishing of thirst. His wineskin had gone dry days ago and what little water he could suck from the juice of the fruit in his pack had disappeared with the emptying of his rations. The true test would come now. Every hour would be a fight for survival, in more ways than one. He should be laying low and conserving his strength, not hoisting a fever-hot body on his back as he made the difficult journey through a valley of death. But every moment the Magister was left to the elements was another moment sacrificed to her ailment. What would save him would kill her, and the converse was also true. Difficult decisions were made every day on the battlefield, and this was no different. However, Chrom did not hesitate. He would not – could not – be a general otherwise.

Still, the marshes were a perilous thing, and Chrom cursed Plegia for using it to its fullest fatal extent. He’d started to come across decomposed bodies and whole skeletons partially and fully submerged amongst the mangroves. He refused for them to be yet another body to add to the tally. But by Naga, they needed to drink. _He_ needed to drink. There was temptation to sip from the groundwater but he’d heard stories of it being pure poison to all except those who resided within the marshes. 

Chrom let out a cough. His throat was dry, rough as sandpaper. Sagging under the weight of both his blade and the Magister’s body, he could tell his strength was slipping. But, no. He couldn’t give in. Not now. Not here. Especially not here. He’d drag them across the border with his body buried in the mud if he had to. There were many ways to die, and Chrom refused to be interred among the nameless in accursed Plegian soil. 

With that resolve, he hoisted the Magister back up, keeping a tight grip on her, and kept walking.

In the distance, the hot, humid, gloomy swamp beckoned, almost endless in its width and breadth. The air was stifling, oppressive, almost noxious, difficult to breathe in and going down with a terrible rattle in his throat. Each step he took sank into the wet ground, into a thick sludge-like mud that seemed to make his boots stick before he was able to lift his food with some effort. He could hear the incessant buzzing of flies echoing throughout the marsh, the insects hovering over them like they were another sumptuous meal. Chrom had barely the strength to swat them away. And the pain of thirst had given way to a low throbbing in his head that hadn’t left him for days now.

“Damnation,” he gasped, wanting to shake away the headache but knowing it would only worsen if he did so, “I will not die, not here.”

All he needed was to put one foot in front of the other.

One step.

One damnable step.

One step away from the Dragon’s Table.

One step deeper into the belly of the Plegian Marshes.

One damnable step.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It could easily have been a mistake.

He was exhausted, dehydrated, on the very brink (of exhaustion, of sanity, of death). It could so easily have been a hallucination. 

But.

Despite his breathlessness, despite the ringing in his ears, despite the buzzing of swamp flies, he heard it.

The sound of water.

Chrom could have dropped the Magister; could have but didn’t. Instead, he willed himself to block out all other sound and focus on the noise. It was a small gurgle, barely anything at all, but it was all that he had. He limped as fast as his stiff legs could allow, stumbling through tree roots and boulders and mud until he finally came across a great stone cliff face. There was a recess in the cliff face, where the sound of flowing water echoed cruelly without any indication as to where its source was. The was no way around or through it. He would have spent hours there, desperately running his hands against the walls in search of a crack or some secret passage, but by some miracle, one of the walls crumbled almost by cue, revealing an antechamber that led to a deep underground cavern. It was dark and foreboding, but where caution would have otherwise prevailed, his ears led him inside, where, beyond the jagged stalactites and stalagmites that viciously stood at attention, glittering in the dark and gurgling among the rocks was a shallow but unmistakeable spring. 

He nearly did just drop the Magister then. Instead, he placed her on a smooth boulder as quickly as he could and scrambled to the water, dunking his head in the blessedly cool stream and drinking his fill. He had never tasted anything so sweet, but surely anything would be in the valley of death. 

When he was finally sated, he sat on his haunches and deliberated his next move, glancing at the Magister, who had not moved an inch from where he had placed her.

… he would do what was necessary first. Chrom stripped her of her coat (and studiously kept his gaze on anything but the generous swell of her breasts) for her to lay on. He didn’t bother taking anything else off – just what was needed for him to bring her fever down. He pulled out the favour Sumia had bestowed upon him from where he had tucked it into the compartment at his breast and drenched it in the spring, wringing it loosely to gently wipe her down (again, avoiding her cleavage). When he felt more or less satisfied, he wetted the handkerchief one more time before placing it over her face. He would wake her later to force her to drink. If she would awaken.

With that settled, he filled his wineskin with the water and began to make a list in his head. He wanted to wash himself and catch some dinner now that there was some semblance of shelter, some hope for survival.

Plegia was a country where even god feared to tread, but he offered his thanks to Naga all the same for this respite.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_The human is slow. Weak. A diligent servant, but no more dutiful than a mere ant. But he has played his part and brought you to my spring._

_As it has been written._

_Drink of me, child._

_Bathe you in my waters._

_I will restore you._

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Gangrel licked away a bead of sweat that trickled down his face as he tightened his grip on the knees of his concubine and spread her lily white thighs apart so he could thrust harder and deeper into her. She gasped his name, moaned for his pleasure, and it filled him with excitement to see her breasts bounce with each jerk of his hips. 

_A flash of yellow._

He remembered taking his beloved wife like this, on that blessed evening two years ago. But for the brand on her hand, she had been completely unmarked, not a single scratch or scar or tattoo on her. A thing of beauty. A freshly bloomed flower. Robin had been the obedient little bride, resplendent in her wedding finery which he hadn’t allowed her to shed as he took her on his silken sheets. Yes… pale skin, plump breasts, her smoky voice pitched high as she whimpered. Not once had she raised her voice against him. Not once had she denied him. When he called her, she would come to him. When he gave her an order, she would execute it to perfection. She had never failed him. She pleased him greatly. 

_A growl, long and deep, filled his ears. Speaking to him._

His pupils contracted into cat-like slits, gleaming in the darkness of his chambers, his sweat-drenched muscles rippling with exertion to resemble the hard edges of scales as he hunched over to accommodate the illusion of three pairs of wings sprouting from his back and filling the room. His thrusts grew quicker as he snarled, driving over and over again into the warm body beneath him, gradually losing control of his mind and giving into the bestial instint that had begun to consume him. The urge to breed was strong, stronger than it had ever been. His concubine began to scream, twisting into the sheets and shaking.

The growl grew stronger in his mind, louder and louder until it was a shriek that threatened to tear his mind apart. 

_Six yellow eyes opened, staring right **into him**._

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Robin opened her eyes slowly, blinking away the grogginess.

Everything felt dull and hazy, as though she was submerged in a fog, and she was vaguely aware that her body was completely sore. But as she wiggled her fingers and toes, she could account for all her limbs. Aside from the pain, there were no obvious injuries that required her attention. Small mercies. Her mind was exhausted, wrung out and incapable of higher thought as she focused on the view overhead. It took a while for her to realise that the reason why she couldn’t make anything out was because her face had been covered. She reached up with a slight wince and pulled the fabric off – a small delicate thing with embroidered flowers in white thread. She didn’t recognise it. Briefly, she wondered if she’d died to warrant the covering of her face. She didn’t dwell on the thought and looked up to the ceiling instead.

It was dark, but Robin could make out the jagged shape of rocks, threatening to skewer her should they fall from their place. She’d never seen anything like it before. She stared, trying to make out whether they would pierce her, but they seemed immoveable. With no risk of impalement, there was little else up there that drew her attention. The smell was the next thing she noticed. It was pungent, earthy, but not in a pleasant way. She turned her head and squinted at the hole in the ceiling, where light and vines pierced the darkness and shone into the cave, reflected by the little pool that had flooded the lower portion of the cavern. 

Water… she could certainly use some.

With some effort – and by the Felldragon, how her body _hurt_ – she managed to push herself up into a sitting position. She realised that her arms were bare and shivered despite herself. She had been laying on her coat and, although relieved to know where it had gotten to, the mere thought of the motion needed to pull it back on seemed utterly beyond her capabilities at present. Her head was heavy. She felt absolutely drained.

When she lifted her head again, she belatedly realised that there had been someone else in the cavern with her. A man. Their eyes met.

He was familiar. 

… why was he familiar…

It was a testament to her exhaustion that her reaction had taken so long. Her eyes widened. In that instant, he was completely aware of her sudden realisation and lunged away defensively as she drew back to throw thunderbolts at her sworn enemy.

Only.

Only, when she threw her hands at him, nothing erupted from her fingertips.

They both stared at her hands in confusion. There was barely a crackle in the air. The dull thudding in her head grew louder in that moment, sending the room spinning, and before she could even try to begin casting the spell again, Chrom had tackled her to the ground and twisted her arms behind her. She struggled, or at least tried to, writhing impotently in his strong grip and gasping in pain. She tried to focus, tried to call upon her lifeforce, but her head was aching and her body refused to obey.

Soon, she fell limp, panting and sweating, unable to even respond as he cautiously loosened his grip on her.

“So good to have you back with us again, Magister,” he said, reaching over to rummage in his pack.

She squeezed her eyes shut as the headache returned tenfold, Chrom binding her hands together behind her, “What have you done to me, General?”

“Me? You’ve done this to yourself.” 

“What on earth can you mean?”

“Exactly what I’ve said,” he tightened the rope as far as it could go, relishing her wince, “You’ve been dead to the world a little over a week now, and I’ve been the poor sod dragging your sorry carcass all over the desert. I’ve a bone to pick with you – an understatement, truly – and seeing as you’re in no state to fight me, it would behove you to answer me truthfully… unless you’d rather I cut off your head here and now. Would be better for me, actually.”

She struggled to keep up with his words, unable to truly focus on anything even as he rolled her over and hoisted her up against the wall of the cavern. Part of her knew she had to be more antagonistic, glare at him and so on. But when he pressed the mouth of a wineskin against her lips, she foolishly drank without a second thought, greedy with thirst. It could have been poison for all she knew, but the relief chased away any and all self-preservation. 

It was a relief that was short lived.

“Wait. M… more… please,” she gasped, clamouring pitifully after the wineskin that had been wrenched away too quickly. She barely registered his look of contempt.

“You will get more if you answer me truthfully.”

Defeated, she leaned back against the wall of the cavern and looked at him with resignation, “Ask.”

“What was that sorcery on the Dragon’s Table?”

“… sorcery?”

“Think, woman, think,” his voice grew sharp, “Recount your movements. Now! And remember that I will not hesitate to cut you down if you lie to me.”

Robin eyeballed the wineskin and then his other hand, resting on the hilt of his sword. She looked at his eyes, not a trace of warmth or jest about them. 

She forced herself to think.

“It was a… hot day. Past noon. I was entrusted with the defence of the Mage Battalion. To compensate for my lack of magic, I was not meant to enter battle, but… the Ylissians… they were close to breaking through. I remember…” Here, her brow furrowed, “I remember a hurricane. A vortex. Something I’d never seen before. Then, a pillar of light… shining down from the sun… no… up? Up into it? But it exploded. And then…” A sudden ringing blasted in her ears, dissonant and shrill, threatening to tear her mind apart. She doubled over, “Ngh! My head…!” 

“Get a hold of yourself, Magister,” Chrom ordered, but she was writhing on the ground, unable to hear him. He shook her by the shoulders, only to receive no reply. He hesitated, wondering if it were a ploy, but then her eyes rolled into the back of her head, showing only the whites, and she began to scream, bloodcurdling and anguished.

“Magister. Magister!”

Panicking, Chrom splashed her face with water from the wineskin, but it did little to stop the screaming. 

She screamed and screamed and screamed.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Gangrel screamed.

Every inch of his body was on fire. He gasped, a searing pain clawing at him from the inside, like a creature trying to rip its way out of his chest. He screamed. Longed to cut himself open, slash apart his body so it could get out of him. He wanted to drive his hands into his very stomach to pull it out. He screamed. A sensation like knives, like swords, white hot and fresh from the flame, ripped away the skin of his back. His spine thickened, sharpened, growing spines that threatened to pierce through his miserable human flesh. He retched. A strength he had never known kept his retainers from holding him down. There was something inside of him, something bigger than him, something greater. He scratched at his bedpost, tore at his furs, ripped through his fine silken sheets with fingernails that were too sharp to be anything but claws. The snarling in his ear would not stop, could not stop. He couldn’t understand, wished to, but couldn’t, and he wanted to smash his head against the ancient rock, smash it right open so that it would not hurt, would stop, would finish.

Gangrel screamed.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Hours later, the Magister’s eyes fluttered open once again. Hers was a pale countenance, streaked with spring water and sweat, hair brushed out of her eyes. She turned her head and what he saw was clarity returned to her gaze, clarity and serenity. She seemed almost human again.

“You awaken,” Chrom said warily, “Will you continue to scream?”

She shook her head at him.

“Are you thirsty?”

She nodded.

“Very well,” he approached cautiously, propping her head up with one hand as he pressed the mouth of the wineskin against her lips at a slight angle, allowing her to drink her fill slowly. This time, he did not pull it away until she was prepared to stop.

When he moved her to sit upright, she found it easier to breathe. She steadied herself, centred herself, and was the most alert she had seemed in days.

“What you told me before… was that the truth? A vortex and a pillar of light, the likes of which you had never seen before, and an explosion. Was that truly the last thing you remember?”

The Magister cleared her throat – no longer assailed by the burning sensation from before – and said, “Yes. I… I recall the light. I felt as though it burned my eyes and I had been blinded. And then, a terrible pain.”

“What caused the pain?”

“I… do not know. If I had to wager, it would be the explosion.”

“Hmm,” Chrom dropped his gaze briefly before meeting her eyes again, “Why were you screaming?”

“I… what?”

“Screaming. When I asked you to recount what had happened.”

The Magister hesitated, but a glance at Chrom’s no-nonsense face was all it took to get her to capitulate, “… when you asked me to remember, all that there was was a yawning chasm… an unending blackness. As if my memories had been drowned in the night. I was trying to grasp a memory, any memory, but the pain was… unbearable. My mind felt as though it was being torn apart. It hurt almost as much as trying to cast a spell.”

Chrom had heard of something along the lines of magic being entrenched in the mind. Too much was unexplained, but there were some things that he was able to piece together. The strongest mage in the world, currently without a drop of magic, and missing great portions of her memory following an explosion of untold magical properties. Strangely convenient. But on a normal day, the Magister had more than enough power to take him out, and she hadn’t been able to do so much as cast a simple spell mere hours before. The Magister he knew would not take captivity lying down.

She was not lying to him.

He had a gift, a gift of his bloodline, that allowed him to see through lies and danger when he was strongly attuned to the magic of his sword. It was a strange manifestation of his bond to the holy blade, but it had served him well. Nevertheless his sword, Falchion, remained blissfully dormant in its sheath. She posed no threat to him, and she was not lying. He was amazed – incredulous, really – that the Magister could ever be anything but a threat, but his gift had never failed him before. And as he turned the facts in his head, a wondrous thought appeared in the forefront of his mind.

“You are without magic now.”

She turned away from him.

“Is it because of the explosion?”

She did not respond.

“Answer me,” he said sternly, “Are you alone in this matter? Has it affected the others?”

The Magister – and he could scarcely believe the _cheek_ – scoffed, “I cannot speak for anyone but myself. And on this matter, I do not wish to speak.”

A prickle of interest, “So it is true.”

Her silence and hardened jaw was answer enough.

“The mages of Plegia are without magic.” The mages of Plegia are _without magic._

Whatever had happened on the Table… whatever terrible destruction it had wrought… if it had been caused by the Plegian heathens, well, there were two edges to every sword. This was good news. This was excellent news. This was the best news he had heard in _weeks_. Undoubtedly, whoever had survived had withdrawn to take stock of what had happened, to regroup, restrategise. But no one would know, could know to what extent the eclipse had impacted the Plegian army. A mage army without magic was nothing more than a colony of ants waiting to be crushed under the heel of the Ylissians. And their greatest weapon, rendered utterly powerless, was in his custody. The end of the war was in sight.

But they had to move quickly. _He_ had to move quickly.

“You have what you wanted,” the Magister said sombrely, breaking the silence, “Shall I prepare myself for death, then, General?”

Chrom stared at her, took in her pale face and dark eyes, her slouched form with her hands bound behind her back.

“Yours is a head I would gladly take in battle, Magister. But it is not the Ylissian way to strike at an impotent enemy, away from the battlefield. The Fates smile upon you, or perhaps they do not, for yours is not a death that will come this day.”

“I… do not understand.”

“You will be tried in Ylisstol, where the Ylissians will determine your death, be it on the axeman’s block, or languishing in a prison to rot evermore.”

“… Ah.”

“Indeed”, he said, casting her a withering look, “ _Ah_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should really sleep on this chapter a little longer because I’m tired and could use a bit of distance for a better edit, but I’ve been itching to update. Hopefully the subsequent chapters won’t take an entire month. 
> 
> As ever, please do review if you’ve been enjoying the story. Your comments motivate me to write!


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